


to sleep, perchance to dream-- aye, theres the rub

by dr33g



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love, also wolts trans. i didnt mention it but he is. know this, basically this is wolt lamenting how much he loves roy and how much he shouldnt love roy, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 09:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19206514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr33g/pseuds/dr33g
Summary: You love him.You cannot love him.You love him anyway.





	to sleep, perchance to dream-- aye, theres the rub

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally just prose i wrote because my friend ice inspired me. im stupid

Silence has and always will make you uneasy. You cannot sleep alone because of this sometimes, unless the wind that reminds you of home plays a gentle and eerie melody to remind you that you are the wind and that you are safe and you are simply flying to where you must go.

That’s why he’s here. Unfortunately, you cannot sleep anyway, for a completely different reason.

It’s because he’s here.

He’s here, fast asleep, so close yet so far, and you’re tempted-- Tempted to reach out and touch his face, his eyes, his lips--

You won’t. That’s a boundary someone like you cannot cross for any reason. 

No matter how much it tempts you, you must keep you and your hands on this side of the tent.

Touching him must remain a dream, one that you hope will come to you tonight when your exhaustion finally absorbs you completely. 

It’d be much better than the nightmares you get about not being there for him when it counts.

 

Watching him practice is something you will never admit to looking forward to. The sweat on his brow, the power in his arms, the determination in his eyes--

It’s enough to make you forget how to speak, how to breathe.

His fingertips are calloused, the way someone who uses a sword without gloves would be. 

Yours are not. Your mothers always told you to use gloves when firing, guards when you pull back the string with your thumb and let the arrow fly.

You wonder, ever so briefly, what his hands would feel like in yours. The gentlest of touches, the press of your fingerpads on his--

Even that is too much to think of. 

Someone like you could never do that to someone like him.

 

He’s talking to her again, and you think it’s going to actually tear out your heart this time. He’s looking at her with a gentleness that’s not reserved for you. When he looks at you, it’s tense, like he’s trying to hide something from you. You hate it. 

What does she have that you don’t?

Why does he prefer her to you?

 

The title you say blackens your tongue, coats it in tar, sticky and bitter, and runs down your throat as it clogs up your heart. To speak it poisons you even further, reminds you of just how insignificant you are when compared to him.

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t know how much you hate it.

But you must. You have to. They can’t-- They cannot take him from your side. To do so would kill you.

And if poisoning yourself with this blight is part of the promise, then who are you to protest?

 

You’re enamored with his hands. The way his fingers wrap around a sword, the way they fit in his gloves, the way they hold onto you ever so slightly, sometimes. It’s intoxicating. You could live on it. 

Sometimes, you fantasize of what they would feel like if you took them and let your m--

_ No _ . You musn’t. You can’t. You look away from them. 

To let yourself indulge is a crime against him. You refuse to let yourself do anything that could hurt him, even this.

 

If only your refusal was as final as you hoped it was. Your dreams do not seem to hold the same fortitude as your waking self does on the matter.

 

You do not deserve to know him. He is a prince, a lordling, a leader. You are simply the boy that was born so that he may feed. Were your mother not his wetnurse, you would never have met him.

It would’ve been better that way. For you, and more so for him. 

You wouldn’t feel so sick to your stomach every time you saw him. He wouldn’t look so pained to talk to you.

 

A life without him would kill you. 

 

You love him.

You cannot love him, not like this.

 

His smile haunts you. You could drink it in, sustain yourself with the way it brings you warmth, wrap yourself in it, and let it become the only thing you know. You nearly have. He could ask you anything, and you’d do it if it would bring him happiness.

Even if it were sending you to your own death, you’d do it. Anything for him. Your lord. Your best friend. Your  _ everything _ .

If his success means your demise, so be it.

 

Oh. He’s calling for you now. His voice warms you, lights you aflame. You smile, despite the way it hurts.

 

You love him.

You cannot love him.

You love him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comment if you enjoyed please !!!!! i hope this wasnt as stupid as it felt


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